


Study The Laugh Lines

by 24bookworm68



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Burns, Canon Divergence - A Tale of Two Stans, Fever, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Single Parents, mullet dad au, no portal, this is awful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24bookworm68/pseuds/24bookworm68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm fanaticizing about doing a raindance in traffic.<br/>I'm fanaticizing about a storm to wash me away.<br/>If you'd study the laugh-lines, you'd see that I'm cracking.<br/>I spent six months now feeling like dead weight</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue | i thought we'd never be alone

**Author's Note:**

> don't judge me. i promise this'll be happy eventually? essentially, au in which Stan is an irresponsible Mullet Dad and tiny Dipper & Mabel make everything better. the prologue mostly just rehashes atots to set up the rest, but i think it reads okay.

The story goes like this: Ford sees his brother for the first time since the sixties.

( _ The story goes like this: Ford hasn’t slept peacefully in months and his hands have a near-constant tremor unless he keeps them busy and he’s been waiting the better part of who knows how long it’s been since he sent that postcard for Stan to show up because he doesn’t have anybody else, nobody except a brother he hasn’t seen in more than ten years and he fucked up and he’s been betrayed again and at least Stan never tried to get him to help jumpstart the hypothetical apocalypse, at least Stan isn’t a literal demon who found him when he was alone and vulnerable and lied and lied and lied. _ )

“Stanley,” he says, and gives himself a second to take in the changes in his twin - still chubby, but with more visible muscle mass under the shoulders of his jacket, traded in his baby cheeks for five o’clock shadow and the same square jaw Ford sees in the mirror when he can force himself to look at one, and... a mullet? Ford is somehow both surprised and not surprised at the same time. “Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?”

“Hello to you too, pal,” Stan sighs, and Ford thinks  _ he could be Bill this could be a dream everything could be a lie again and again and again _ \- and he tugs his brother inside, flashlight to the eyes - and this is where the dreams the past few nights (days? evenings? he never means to sleep  _ but _ ) fall apart - or where they did once he caught on because the first few times he thought it was really Stanley and he didn’t check and he got a  _ literal _ knife to the back for his trouble, he got a  _ “Did you really think he cares did you really think you could just call him and he’d save you Sixer just because you made your nightmares a reality doesn’t mean anybody can wake you up from them -” _ and he just wants to feel safe just for a  _ second _ . “Hey!” Stan protests in real time, shoves him off, “What is this?”

“Sorry! I just had to make sure you aren’t-” he can’t say it, can’t get into it, not now, so he clamps his lips shut on explanations about Bill and shakes his head, “It’s nothing. Come in, come in.”

Stan hesitates, leans back out of the doorway, and Ford opens his mouth to say something about how he doesn’t have time for Stan to play games here, but, “I, ah - I just gotta go back to the car,” some of the way Ford’s heart skips at the delay must show on his face because Stan holds up his hands placatingly, “I’ll be right back and you can even do the flashlight thing again but I have to… grab something.”

And suspicion rises in Ford’s throat like bile but… Well, he’s out of options, isn’t he, and an extra minute can’t hurt  _ that _ much. Probably. Not weighed against the risk that Stan will just bolt like a scared rabbit and Ford will have to figure out another solution even though it took him weeks to work up the courage for this one.

He nods and tightens his grip on his crossbow.

He listens to the howling of the wind and then Stan comes back into view and Ford’s already lunging forward with the flashlight when he processes that his brother has a small child on his hip.

Correction, he has one small child on his hip and another hanging off his neck, not much more than pudgy arms and the top of a head visible. Suspicion turns to confusion. “Stan, whose kids are those?”

Stan shifts from foot to foot for a second, looking awkward. “Ah. Mine.”

“You don’t have kids.”

“Ford,” Stan sighs, with that facial expression that Ford remembers as  _ I love you but for a genius you’re really dumb sometimes _ , “It’s been thirteen years. Can we get out of the snow, or do we have to have a whole chat about how time works?”

Ford steps to the side, feeling a bit like his head’s been split open. Which has actually happened, so he’d recognize the feeling. The kid clinging to his brother’s back lifts a tiny head to squint at him and then promptly looks away, and it’s surreal - but he’s somewhat more convinced that Stan didn’t just find them somewhere, he  _ recognizes _ those eyes, the unruly hair escaping from under the kid’s hat.

“So, um… meet Dipper and Mabel?” Stan says after a couple of awkward seconds. He nods his head at the kids as he says their names, a nod left to indicate the head peeking over his shoulder, a nod right for the little girl on his hip.

Mabel tilts her head at him, braids making a clicking sound as they swing through the air. “You’re my uncle Ford?” she chirps, and that is also incredibly surreal. Ford was less surprised when a giant tree arm came out of the forest and crushed his car. He nods, and the girl wriggles out of Stan’s arm and runs over to latch onto his leg and he can’t help the  _ flinch _ at the contact and then there’s a bolt of guilt straight to his stomach at the way her face drops and he didn’t expect this and he doesn’t  _ want _ this and it’s not the  _ time _ .

“Hey, kiddo, c’mon,” Stan grumbles, pulling her back by the back of her jacket. “Look, is there anywhere I can put them while we talk?” he asks, and it takes a beat for Ford to figure out that was directed at him and another for him to figure out if there’s anything  _ too _ dangerous in his bedroom. Lots of alcohol, but he can lock that up so it’s fine. He nods hurriedly and waves one hand - he forgets to be self-conscious for just a second, because it’s  _ Stan _ and he remembers  _ “Hey, c’mon, don’ listen to them, you’re not a freak and m’gonna break Crampelter’s stupid nose just you watch-” _

( _ It hurts. It  _ aches  _ that everyone who’s ever been on his side has fucked him over one way or another. _ ) ( _ He’s not thinking about it. He doesn’t have a choice because he needs Stan right now because there’s nobody else _ .) ( _ Fuck he’s exhausted all he wants is some  _ sleep.)

Stan drops the kids on the couch in Ford’s room and Ford locks away an unhealthy amount of bottles and pretends he doesn’t feel the joint weights of his brother’s eyes on his back and his journal in his pocket. It’ll be over soon and he can sleep and he can  _ sleep _ and the world will be safe.

“I’ve made huge mistakes,” he blurts out as soon as the door closes behind them, “I don’t know who I can trust anymore, I need help, I’m in so much trouble, I-” he takes a deep breath, shoves his hands back through his hair.

Stan’s hands go up again, placating, appeasing. “Hey, hey, calm down. Whatever it is, we’ll work it out, okay?” and one hand finds its hesitant way to Ford’s shoulder, squeezing hard in time with the ruefully reassuring quirk of his lips. Ford hates himself a little for being comforted by it.

“I have something to show you,” he says, deliberately shaking off the hand. “Something you won’t believe.”

Stan rolls his eyes dismissively, “Look, I’ve been around the world, I’ll understand whatever it is.”

Ford whirls for the basement, taking the stairs at a clip and trying to breathe through the silence in the elevator all the way down. Out of the corner of his eye he can almost see Stan trying to say something - or maybe that’s wishful thinking.

The portal looms, menacing, and Stan admits, “There is.  _ Nothing _ about this I understand.”

Ford breezes through his explanation of the science - science is easy, science makes sense, science has never betrayed him - pulls out his journal with a hand that wants to shake apart into atoms drifting through space, “Do you remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?” And Stan  _ smiles _ \- his stupid boat and his stupid treasure-hunting and ruining everything Ford could’ve made for himself but it’s not the time, it isn’t - “Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can. To the edge of the earth! Bury it where no one can find it.”

“ _ That’s it _ ?” Stan demands, behind him now, and Ford spins back around and he doesn’t know  _ why _ his twin is angry all of a sudden, he’s getting what he wants, “You  _ finally _ wanna see me, after  _ ten years _ , and it’s to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?” and Ford doesn’t  _ understand _ and it’s just another layer of cognitive dissonance because he used to be able to not only understand his brother’s reactions to things but  _ anticipate _ them and he doesn’t know when that changed and -

\- he just wants a minute to breathe.

“Stanley, you don’t understand what I’m up against! What I’ve been through!” he spits out, and doesn’t let himself fall back into the last few months - Bill being able to take control at will, waking up at the base of the stairs with blood on his head, wrenching himself back with a fork in his arm, and fear, and fear, and  _ fear _ all the time.

“No, no,  _ you _ don’t understand what  _ I’ve _ been through,” Stan spits, stalking closer and Ford can’t help the flinch back, “I’ve been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! You think you’ve got problems? I’ve got a  _ mullet _ , Stanford!” And Ford thinks of the two wild-haired kids upstairs and his stomach sinks to his shoes - he thinks of his brother the last time he saw him before this, baby fat on his cheeks, lighting up talking about maps and adventure and treasure, and he thinks  _ how did this all happen look at us how did we get here _ \- “And meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods, selfishly hoarding your college money because  _ you only care about yourself _ !”

And Ford thinks  _ oh, right, we got here because you couldn’t stand the idea of me getting the one thing I wanted for myself _ .

“I’m selfish?” he says, dangerously quiet. “ _ I’m _ selfish, Stanley? How can you say that, after costing me my  _ dream school _ ? I’m giving you the chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won’t even listen!”

( _ He regrets the words as soon as they’re out, in some long-ignored corner of his mind, in some forgotten space that exists mostly to repeat “You’re not a freak, you’re not a freak, you’re not a freak” over and over in his brother’s voice. _ )

“The f-” he starts, outraged, arm moving in the general direction of Ford’s room upstairs, before he stops, shaking his head. “Well listen to this. You wanted me to get rid of this book?  _ Fine _ .”

And he pulls out a lighter and Ford’s brain dissolves into blind panic and rage and he’s  _ lunging _ \- and suddenly they’re a whirl of fists and feet, like any of their childhood wrestling matches except worse, except angrier than they ever were over borrowed toys or the last slice of cake, and Ford dimly feels himself getting knocked into equipment, knocking back, and then he’s on the ground and he’s  _ pulling _ and “You left me behind, you jerk!” Stan shouts, voice raw, “It was supposed to be us forever, you ruined my life!”

“ _ You ruined your own life _ !” Ford shouts back, kicking his brother off, and there’s a split-second feeling of pride because Stan was always the better fighter but he’s matching him blow for blow and he thinks  _ See, I don’t need you, I don’t need you to fight my battles anymore. _

And then there’s a  _ scream _ .

His boot is still pressed to his brother’s chest - he  _ flinches _ , smells smoke, sees  _ agony _ on features as familiar as his own and panic bubbles up in his stomach, and  _ no, no, no no no no _ \- “ _ Stanley _ , I’m so sorry areyoualright?” the words stumble out as fast as they can go and his brother just  _ glares _ , and then his eyes flick over Ford’s shoulder and widen just a bit and Ford can’t help but look -

\- the portal’s  _ on _ .

And he’s mumbling curses and rushing to the levers and shutting it off because he can’t be the reason the world ends today and by the time he’s done Stan’s not behind him.

He rushes, stumbling, for the elevator and waits impatiently to get back aboveground and thinks  _ it’s fine, I’ll patch him up and he won’t even stay angry _ because Stan, he learned after a thousand childhood fights,  _ never _ stays angry at him - always the first to apologize when they aren’t talking, kicking the ground and rushing out explanations, there’s a routine to this, Ford knows how it goes, Ford  _ remembers _ .

His brother is nowhere to be found. His room is empty of children, and, when he rushes into the snow to maybe stop him - them - before they get too far, the familiar red car is nowhere to be seen.


	2. hands are shaky (& i don't feel right)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't have a justification for how long this took besides the fact that making Ford do emotions is like herding cats i'm so sorry

Ford convinces himself that Stan will be back and he can fix everything within the week.

Well, he convinces himself that after spending about an hour panicking on the living room floor, which is… Sadly, not an unfamiliar experience. Well, slightly unfamiliar - he’s been using a childhood picture to ground himself, the last few months, but looking at it with his brother’s screams still ringing in his ears makes him nauseous.

But Stan never stays angry at him and he wanted to help - didn’t he? Ford thought he did, before the fight, but people are complicated and he doesn’t know his brother as well as he used to think he did and -

\- well, to be fair, Ford’s never done something on the same level as branding protection symbols into his twin before. Everybody has a limit of things they’re willing to forgive.

( _ Except that thought makes bile rise in his throat because as much as he’s been angry at his brother for a very long time and as much as he never really figured out when he’d be calm enough to even consider letting him back in… Stan can’t just  _ not forgive him _. Unacceptable. _ ) ( _ It feels like a knife in his head, feels like he’s living those months between Stan getting kicked out and Ford going to college again, except instead of angry he’s alone and terrified and Stan can’t not forgive him because in theory he’s the only person Ford has left. _ )

So maybe it’s a lie, but he convinces himself Stan just needs to cool off from their fight and he’ll be back.

The thought rings a little hollow after two days of silence.

On day two, after waking up from another nightmare, Ford takes a mental account of his situation. His only plan was getting his brother to take the journal, which Stan didn’t do. Said brother is ( _ because Ford lost his temper and wasn’t as aware of their surroundings as he should’ve been and Stan may have started the fight but it’s Ford’s lab and he should’ve been more careful and he can’t stop smelling smoke _ ) somewhere out in the world hurt with two small children in tow. Ford has no idea where his brother is, no plan to get rid of his journal, and no way to keep Bill out of his dreams.

_ Fantastic _ .

Lying on the floor seems like the best option for most of day two.

On… technically day three, he thinks, the phone starts ringing. He’s been ignoring it for months - it’s rung all of twice in the past five weeks, people have given up on calling him. Which is why he pauses before deciding to ignore it again - an unexpected call for the first time in weeks right after he sees his brother for the first time in thirteen years? Coincidence? Maybe, or maybe he’s just telling himself it could be because he can’t bring himself to pick up the damn thing - at his most sleep-deprived he’s convinced himself that someone could control and or read his mind through it, and even with the benefit of a clearer head it’s hard to rule it out, given similar projects he’s been involved in.

But it could be Stan.

He still hears screaming, he still smells smoke.

“Hello?” he barks into the phone.

There’s a little sniffle on the other line, and it feels like a rock’s settled in his stomach. “U-Uncle Ford?” says a very small voice, and Ford’s heart  _ lurches _ .

“Mabel?”

It’s a guess but he must be right because the voice starts talking a mile a minute, “I thought this was your number but I wasn’t sure and I dunno what happened when we were up there but Dad started acting weird and he said we had to go and we drove for a really long time but we got a motel room and he said we’d just stay the night but then yesterday he said we’d leave in the morning today but he won’t wake up all the way and his face is really hot so I think he’s sick and  _ please come _ ,” she concludes breathlessly, sounding about five seconds from tears.

So he spends most of day three and part of day four on a bus to Reno.

A taxi that nearly sends him into a panic because the driver could be possessed drops him at an unimpressive motel and when he knocks, as instructed by his tiny niece, on the door to room eight, it’s flung open by his nephew - wearing the same shirt he was four days ago and his eyes are almost as red as Ford’s, which is a bad sign.

“Ah. Greetings?” he says awkwardly, and the kid just raises his eyebrows in a spookily familiar way.

Mabel appears out of the dimness of the room, hair out of its pigtails, and immediately starts talking, “We got him to wake up and drink some water yesterday, and he’s lying about how bad it is so it’s probably not as bad as it looks,” she reports, reaching a hand out as if to grab Ford’s coat and then stopping short and wrapping her arms around her stomach instead.

Dipper, still eyeing Ford dubiously, nods at a door in the right wall of the room - leading into room nine, Ford assumes - and then steps closer to his sister, bumping her shoulder with his. Ford’s not good with nonverbal cues, as a general rule, but he remembers the joint motion of  _ here for you _ and  _ stay away from us _ from his own childhood - it feels vaguely wrong to be on the other side of that. Let it never be said that he can’t take an obvious hint.

Room nine gives him a bad feeling in his stomach - a twisting, bubbling nausea that warns him that something's wrong. He ignores it - he's good at ignoring gut feelings like that, they're usually wrong anyway.

His brother is a lump of blankets and shaggy hair on the bed and Ford feels his heart  _ lurch _ again and he forgot how easy it is to worry about his twin, somewhere along the way. “Stanley?” he tries, and his voice sounds too loud in the stillness. No response - but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Stan sleeps like a rock, Ford remembers that, all sprawled limbs and snoring and making Ford creep down the ladder to his bunk after nightmares when they were little. Well, not  _ making him _ , exactly, but Ford’s options were limited to a) get down there or b) feel partially responsible for the misery he could practically  _ touch _ , a palpable force pulsing up through his mattress - when they were  _ really _ little he had it down to a science, exactly two minutes to get down there before the crying started, five before Stan would start talking, fifteen after that before Ford could pry himself out of the hands clutching his pajamas. Easy. Thoughtless. Routine.

He doesn’t  _ want _ to remember things like this, they just make the betrayal festering in his gut sting a little sharper. He takes a deep breath, slots that betrayal in like a glass wall between him and the situation, steps forward.

Stan’s sleeping - not easily, furrowed eyebrows and curled up in a ball and another  _ lurch _ in Ford’s chest because anger is one thing but he never wanted to  _ hurt _ his brother, not  _ really _ , not  _ ever _ \- and one shaky six-fingered hand bridges the space between them like an olive branch or a rope thrown over the cliff’s edge, settles on his brother’s forehead and it’s still disconcertingly easy, casual contact, and Ford never asked for this bubble of comfort, this two-person microcosm, but he can’t ignore the fact that something in his chest lightens at the touch even as his stomach sinks to his shoes at the  _ heat _ boiling beneath his palm.

“Stanley,” he says again, a little more firm, shaking his twin’s shoulder roughly, “Wake up, c’mon.”

“Mmmmmdnwnna,” Stan whines, curling up a little tighter.

He’s responsive, that’s something. “Come  _ on _ , Stanley,” Ford sighs, the knots in his stomach easing ever so slightly.

Murky brown eyes blinking open and, “Ford?” and the scientist in question is just about to make a quip along the lines of  _ who else? _ when Stan sits bolt upright and scrambles back on the lumpy motel bed, eyes suddenly wide and alarmed. “The  _ hell  _ are you doing here?” he grates out.

_ Right _ , thinks Ford,  _ we’re still fighting _ . “Mabel called, said you weren’t doing well,” he says as flatly as he can.

“Mabel - how did -” Stan starts, clearly baffled, and then he shakes his head, “Whatever, I don’t care, stay away from them, stay away from  _ me _ ,” he growls, starts a broad gesture with his right hand and then cuts off - the words and the arguably more honest and understandable motion - with a hiss, left hand snapping up to grab his shoulder.

Sometimes Ford really hates being right. “Stan, you’re hurt, and I’d lay money your shoulder’s infected. You need help, and if you had another option you would’ve already gotten it taken care of,” he says calmly, even though the realization aches - his brother’s as bereft of places to turn as he is.

“How much money?” Stan retorts in a voice that’s trying too hard to be dry and sarcastic - almost convincing, if not for the shiver in it. “I think I’ll pass on your help with this, thanks.”

“What happens when it gets worse?” Ford shoots back, and Stan just squares his jaw. “What happens to those kids when you can’t take care of them?” and that provokes a  _ flinch _ , a  _ stutter _ in his brother’s breathing, a flicker of this unhappy lost expression.

It’s there and then gone, “You’re such an asshole,” he bites out with no real heat, and then he’s turning so Ford can see his back.

It’s  _ bad _ . A mess of dead tissue and pus and almost bruise-colored discoloration in the shape of a sigil Ford put up to keep himself safe from Bill and isn’t that just ironic in the worst way, that something that represents safety can put this sudden aching, gnawing pain in his chest. “Alright, I - we should really get that under running water to clean it, do you have a first aid kit?”

Stan shifts enough to give his brother a suspicious look, and then says, “...In the trunk, yeah. Keys are in my jacket.”

That part, at least, is easy, snagging the battered keys out of the pocket of the equally battered jacket, opening the trunk of a car that makes him nostalgic, for just a second, about Glass Shard Beach and sunshine and the days before anybody had betrayed him. There are toys and blankets strewn across the backseat, speaking of three lives Ford knows nothing about.

Stan’s perched on the edge of the motel room’s grimy bathtub, shirt off and tangled between his hands and one knee drawn up to his chest - it’s a sort of flip of a familiar position, Ford remembers adopting a similar posture, sitting on the edge of the tub in their childhood home, his brother holding a bottle of peroxide and saying  _ this is gonna sting pretty bad  _ ruefully, and the grimace on his face was a comfort back then because of whatever kind of magic makes empathy a painkiller. “This isn’t going to be pleasant,” Ford says apologetically, and Stan rolls his eyes.

Sometimes Ford  _ really  _ hates being right. It’s more than ten but less than twenty minutes of barely-restrained groans and Ford trying to stop his hands from shaking too badly to handle this and, just, what a pair they are. The first aid kit is woefully understocked but there’s just barely enough clean gauze to handle this.

There’s about a half a second of peace, of quiet, before Stan gets to his feet and slips out the door, and Ford trails after, not quite enough time to convince himself to ask what his brother’s doing before they’re back in room eight - the kids  _ pounce _ , loud voices, louder hands, and this was probably a bad idea even compared with most of Stan’s ideas. “Hey, hey, okay, I’m fine, sorry I scared you kids, c’mon,” he babbles, and Ford stands in the doorway like a spectator in his own family, “Go get in the car, okay, we’re gonna get breakfast and then hit the road.”

The kids sprint off, and Stan stays where he is, not looking at Ford but clearly waiting for him to say something - Ford obliges, “You’re going to drive back to New Mexico with that fever and those kids in the back?” ( _ He already loves the kids, he is an absolute wreck of a human being, he already loves them _ .)

“Who said anything about New Mexico?” Stan asks, and he sounds more tired than he looks which is a feat in and of itself.

“...You live there,” Ford says, a little uncertainly - it’s where he sent the postcard, but everything’s been upside down and backwards since his brother knocked on his door.

And Stan laughs, bitterly, “What, that place we were staying? Ever heard of a rental? Nah, there’s shit going down in New Mexico - I hear South Dakota’s nice, god knows we can’t stay here, I still got warrants out for that Vegas thing,” his voice drops into a mumble by the end, hand pushing back through the ridiculous mullet.

“You’re going to drive to  _ South Dakota _ with that fever and the kids in the back?” Ford says, a little louder than his original question.

Stan finally turns to look at him, all stubborn jaw, and the hand that isn’t attached to the bad shoulder flings out - an infuriated motion, one Ford recognizes by instinct, “I ain’t exactly rolling in choices, Stanford.”

“Stay in Gravity Falls,” Ford’s mouth says entirely without his permission, more in touch with his oft-repressed sense of guilt than the rest of him, “Just. Just until you’re not in danger of crashing your car because you’re delirious or something.” Not an acceptable possibility - he really can feel his soft spot for those kids expanding by the second, it’s terrible, and he really doesn’t want his brother hurt. 

“So I can do you that favor you wanted,” Stan says dryly, just a hint of outraged hurt in the twitch of his fingers.

And he's not wrong, but that's only part of what Ford's thinking now to justify his own actions - this way he can keep an eye on his family, who Bill no doubt took notice of while they were up there, he doesn't leave the portal unguarded for any longer than absolutely necessary, and maybe he can still get Stan to hide the last journal. “Because this is mostly my fault, ya knucklehead, and I don’t want the kids hurt because we can’t go ten minutes without punching each other,” Ford shoots back, and the hurt is gone like it was never there. He wonders when his brother learned to hide anything from him.

“You want me to drive to Oregon with this fever and the kids in the back?” Stan snipes, parroting his tone in a way that would be disconcerting if it were anybody other than his twin, who has been doing that since they learned to talk.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll drive.”

“You’re not driving my car.”

“Neither are you, when you’re sick.”

They look at each other for a second, both refusing to budge. Stan gives first, like he always does, because Ford’s just barely the more stubborn of the two of them. Just stubborn enough to win almost every battle of will they’ve ever had. “Fine! But we’re going for breakfast first. When’s the last time you ate?”

_ Conversational whiplash _ , is the appropriate term. “What?”

“Food, Ford. Need it to live. You never remember, and you look kinda peaky - which, however bad I look right now, there you go,” Stan says with a hell of a lot of fake nonchalance. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just swans out the door after the kids.

If he doesn't squint too hard it almost looks like progress.


End file.
